


loss

by pandizzy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Miscarriage, Post-Canon, Stillbirth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:08:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23449792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandizzy/pseuds/pandizzy
Summary: With her loss, Sansa loses track of time.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 16
Kudos: 102





	loss

**Author's Note:**

> I've been neglecting my jonsa for quite some time, I know, but if I am being honest, I just couldn't write about them. Everytime I tried, I just failed :(  
> This drabble is all I got in some months, but hopefully, I can flex these unused muscles back into shape.

She loses track of time. Days, maybe weeks pass and she never leaves her room, or even her bed. They bring her Robb, her sweet Robb, and he kisses her face, hugs her neck and says, "Mama, please don't be sad. You can't be sad. You're my mama."

She kisses him back, allows him to sleep in her bed, curled against her belly, as if his presence there could remedy the emptiness in her heart. When he kneels down by her side, palms pressed together as he prays, he whispers, "Gods, please bring my brother back. My mama is sad. Please. I will be good. I will eat all my spinach, if you bring him back." She hugs him even closer that night, her hot tears splashing on his cheek.

He never cried. The babe. He was born blue, the cord wrapped around his soft little throat. He'd been dead for a long time. She hopes he didn't feel any pain, that it was peaceful. Her son is with her father now, and her mother. Somewhere better, where the hurts of this world wouldn't reach him.

And yet. It still aches. His loss. Everything hurts, doesn't it? Now, more than ever. He's somewhere better and she still wishes he was there with her, safe against her breast. Growing strong by her side.

Something changes. She doesn't know when, or how many days it has been since her failed delivery. Maester has just left with more papers, asking her to sign them, to come out, please, Your Grace, the queendom needs you. The door opens and someone steps in, someone large with familiar steps. Robb raises his head from where it rests against her neck, his shaggy auburn hair sticking in all directions. He looks at the door and a smile cuts his face.

"Papa!" he shouts, beaming.

She doesn't look at the door. There is no need. She knows it's Jon. Robb climbs over her, chubby feet sticking between her ribs. Her little prince, the future King in the North. He's three and growing like a vine.

Jon groans as he picks their son up, muttering something about how big he's gotten. She knows he looks at her then, with sad gray eyes that remind her of her father, before he whispers something in Robb's ear and her son leaves, running. The door closes once more.

She expects him to say something. To say and tell her to leave the bed, pulling away the covers. It's what Petyr did, when her sadness became too much to bear, when the hollow in her chest where her heart once was grew and grew until it threatened to swallow her whole.

Instead, Jon enters the bed. She feels the cushion dipping under his weight. He pulls the covers over him and wraps his arms around her body, pressing his soft lips against her temple. With his touch, she can feel anxiety slipping away from her, the weight lifting off her shoulders. He's there.

"It was a boy," she whispers and her words hang in the air, as if frozen by the cold.

Jon nods.

"I know," he says, "They told me."

"Who told you?" she asks, although that hardly matters.

"Wolkan," Jon explains, "He wrote me a raven saying that you entered the birthing bed a month too soon and the babe was stillborn." He shrugs, "I took a horse that same day."

Tears prickle her eyes and she means to wipe them away, not wishing to look weak in his eyes, but Jon's arms stop her. He hugs her tighter, pressing her on his chest, and she can feel his heartbeat against her back.

"I'm ashamed," she whispers, "I don't want to look weak, and have people whisper about the fragility of women, but I…"

"You lost a child, Sansa, " Jon says and no one has said her name out loud in so long, "If anyone talks, I will gut them."

She means to chuckle, but the laughter hangs in her throat.

"Don't leave me," she says, "Not now." Not ever.

He kisses her temple once more and turns her body, just enough so she can look at him. Jon's face hovers over her and he presses his lips against her.

"I wouldn't dream about being away," he says and that is the end of the conversation.


End file.
